A New Reflection

21. Homesick

The gravel grinds in a satisfying crunch under my sneakers with each step as a warm drizzle envelops me in its fresh, familiar aroma. Each scrape of scraggly rocks seems to grate a new emotion into my heart: Adventure, homesickness, elation, anxiety.

As I round the corner of the pebbly pathway, my breath hitches when blotches of vibrant color invade my line of vision: cherry, peach, bubble gum, pale pumpkin orange, coral and buttercup yellow.

Three weeks have passed, and I am finally rediscovering the rose garden. In three weeks, I have made a half-dozen faux-friends, located each academic building, learned how to navigate the college cafeteria, attended an open-mic, raised my hand once in class to share an insight into a work of literature, and tagged along downtown with my roommate using the campus shuttle. Three weeks ago, I wandered dead-end circles around this secret garden with my mother and father on either side of me. Today, I stand in the middle of it, utterly alone.

I meander the garden maze, staring at each rose bush, blinking in its beauty. Blinking back tears. Drinking in the late summer Oregon mist through prolonged inhales. Tracing circles with my footsteps until I make it to the furthest edges of the garden.

Raising my chin for the first time, my line of vision expands, taking in the horizon beyond my university campus. A row of houses in the cloudy distance, browns and beiges and pale greens and blues, where families live. Children at home with their parents, where they belong.

Eventually, I crunch my way out of the garden, twisting my neck to steal a final glance at the rose rainbow. My lips quiver into a smile as a spiderweb of subtle thrill tickles through all my organs.

Back in my dorm room, I power on my laptop to check the discussion thread for Professor Sharp's class. I re-read my initial response to the prompt, then scan the other students' answers, satisfied that my insights are on par with everyone else's. Brett—the kid with the brown sandals who loves to hear himself talk—has several careless grammar errors throughout his writing.

A miniature red "1" in the corner of the grades tab alerts me of a new notification, and I click it with dizzy fingers. My heart is pounding as I open my most recent writing assignment and scour Sharp's comments. Unlike my high school teachers, he offers no compliments of my writing or ideas, no overall appraisal of my work to indicate whether or not it is acceptable. Instead, he picks apart every detail, challenging me to go deeper, clarify or reconsider my points. One comment alerts me to the misuse of an em dash.

"I can see the wheels are turning here..." His final comment sounds vaguely positive, but as I finally pry my stinging eyes away from the screen, my head is buzzing with uncertainty and self-doubt.

Returning to the module, I click into the essay instructions that Professor Sharp promised to post. My chest tightens as I scan the complex, multi-question prompt. It's comprehensible, but I'm battling a pervasive floating sensation—disconnected from reality—dread spinning circles like poison infecting my bloodstream.

To clear my head, I step out of my dorm and drift down the hallway to the lounge to fill up my water bottle. On the way back to my room, I spot Josué gliding towards me from the opposite direction. I'm in no mood to deal with him.

He holds up a lime green flier and waves it side to side to attract my attention.

"This is a super rad volunteer opportunity, if you'd like to join us next Saturday!"

"Saturday Picnic in the Park," I read timidly off the flier. It's for an organization that feeds the unhoused every weekend. "Thanks, I might join."

"When people say they 'might' do something, that generally means they aren't interested, but they don't want to admit it directly. When you say you 'might' go, are you genuinely considering it? Or are you too afraid of telling me the truth? I assure you that my feelings won't be hurt if you don't attend, but my soul might secretly cry knowing you're this intimidated by me."